Death Seeker
by Technomad
Summary: What if Gandalf, while freeing Theoden from Saruman's spells, had also freed Grima? And Grima leaped at the chance to ride with the host of Rohan?


Death Seeker

a Lord of the Rings fic

by Technomad

"Do not send your faithful Grima away!" Grima Wormtongue groveled and begged from the floor of the hall of Edoras. King Theoden and Gandalf both looked at him as though he were something squishy they had stepped in.

"All will ride. Grima will ride, too. Go, Grima! You still have time to clean the rust from your sword!" The King's words rang with contempt, but Grima's eyes lit up with the joy one would expect from one reprieved at the foot of the gallows.

"You will forgive me? You will let even _Grima_ ride with you?" He grabbed the surprised King's robe, kissing the hem. "Oh, bless the mercy of the King!" He rose to his feet and scampered off. Gandalf and Theoden exchanged a glance.

"Well, that's the last we'll see of him," commented Gandalf.

Nobody was more surprised than the White Wizard when the host of Rohan assembled. There, in the front of the army, was none other than Grima Wormtongue! Gandalf's eyes went wide. "Could I have done him an injustice?" he wondered aloud. "It might be. Saruman is cunning, and his words have bespelled better men than Grima."

At first, the Riders of Rohan were inclined to chaff their newfound comrade. They teased him about his black cloak, and mocked his Dunlending ancestry mercilessly. However, Grima paid them no attention. When they paused, he saw to his horse and then sat on a rock, alternating between obsessively whetting his shining sword or just staring into space. After a while, the Riders got the impression that there was something slightly uncanny about him. Mockery was replaced by unease, and when nothing they said could get a word out of the former king's counselor, they let him severely alone.

A few days out, they saw their first combat, with a detachment of Orcish soldiers bearing the White Hand. After the mopping-up, the King received some very surprising reports.

All the surviving Rohirrim were loud in praise of his ex-counselor. "He saved my life! I was down, and about to be skewered, when there he was, standing over me and holding off four Orcs at once! I never knew he could fight like that!"

"He charged at the head of the _eored_, and from the way he acted, I think he would have taken them all on alone! Fritharik couldn't believe his eyes for a second; like all of us, he had thought that Grima was a coward. After a second, though, he yelled 'We can't let him do it all alone! Attack! Attack! _Attack! Forth Eorlingas_!" And we yelled and charged on in, but Grima had already broken their formation, single-handedly, and was dueling the Orc chief!"

"If I'd known he could fight like that, I'd have been nicer to him!" The speaker looked awed, and a little frightened. "I just hope he doesn't hold grudges about that!"

After debriefing his commanders, Theoden sat in his tent and looked at Gandalf. "Could it be that your spell freeing me might have also, inadvertently, freed Grima?" he asked.

Gandalf looked thoughtful. "It is perfectly possible. Grima may not have been his own master when he bent you to Saruman's will. The Wizard of Isengard is subtle, and can trick nearly anybody into doing as he wishes."

OOO

Theoden, King of Rohan, and his companions, including two hobbits who had gone astray, rode up to Isengard, through the ruins the Ents had left. There had been fierce competition among the Rohirrim for the honor of accompanying the king, but one man in particular had not needed to compete.

Grima son of Gamlod, "Wormtongue" no longer, but known as "Foes'-Bane," rode just behind the king, his face a white mask around eyes that blazed with inner fire. Again and again, he had charged straight into the thick of the foe, his sword lashing out left and right while his horse trampled enemies under-hoof. By now, the days of mockery were long gone, and the Rohirrim were of one mind about their new comrade.

They were scared silly of him. He never spoke save when strictly necessary, and his eyes…nobody, nobody at all, wanted to look into his eyes. His face was impassive, but his eyes were like he were staring into some hell. He clearly wanted to be let alone, and the Rohirrim respected his prowess on the field more than enough to grant him his wish. By that time, he didn't have to do a lick of camp chores; the youngsters who followed the army scampered to wait on him hand and foot. He accepted their attentions, but his mind was clearly elsewhere, and nobody wanted to know just where.

The little group reined in, and Gandalf called for Saruman to come out. After a while, the traitorious wizard appeared, on a balcony overhead. At the sight of what awaited him, he laughed, long and gently, like an indulgent grandfather confronted with children's mischief.

"Well, Gandalf, I see your taste in companions has not improved! What is this I see? A failed wizard, one who consorts with hobbits. A king of bandits, whose hall is a thatched barn, where brigands drink and their brats roll on the floor with the dogs. And the rag-tag-and-bobble-tail that follow you around. Will you come in and talk to me, Gandalf?"

"No. The last time I came in, I was not impressed with your hospitality. But look around you, Saruman. Your fortress is in ruins, your armies are scattered, partly thanks to this collection of 'brigands' you so unwisely mock, and you are cornered and alone. Will you come out and talk with us?"

"No. Does an unarmed man come down to speak to robbers out of doors? But it is you, Theoden King, to whom I would speak. I see you have taken to accepting bad counsel. What happened to your good Grima?"

Theoden pointed to him. "He's right here. And you're right. He is _my_ good Grima. Not yours. Not any more. Not ever again! Gandalf freed both of us from your filthy spells!" Beside him, Grima was quivering, his face twisting with insane rage. "I think he would like a few words with _you_, though. Will you hear my faithful Grima?"

Saruman nodded, and Grima rode in closer. "Saruman, you-" he began, before letting loose with a blast of invective that had Theoden widening his eyes with wonder, Gandalf shaking his head slightly, and the other Rohirrim nearby all but applauding. His Westron failed him rapidly, but he went right on, in Rohirric, Dunlendish, and several other languages. Finally, he wore down, and sat there in the saddle, panting.

The hobbits had been listening, wide-eyed. Pippin Took rode a little closer to where he could talk privately to Gandalf. "What all did he _say_? I don't know those languages!"

"Let us say, Peregrin Took, that in three hundred lives of men I have never, not once, heard such a concentrated, artistic, venomous cursing-out before today. Basically, young hobbit, he discussed Saruman's ancestry, relatives, diet, choice of romantic partners, habits, clothing, and everything else about him, in the most insulting, degrading ways that language offers. To top it off, the Rohirric parts were in the form of a _flyting_-that's a series of ritualized insults, and quite an art form among them-and the Dunlendish parts were in one of their poetic meters, and done very well indeed. And all apparently extemporaneous! Had his lot in life been different, our Foes'-Bane could have been a great bard."

"Will you teach me how to do that?" Pippin Took asked, irrepressible as always. Gandalf looked down at him and shook his head.

"When you're older. Much older." He looked up at Saruman, who was clearly rocked back on his heels by the sheer venom of Grima's speech to him. "Meanwhile, I still have business with our dear friend."

Saruman and Gandalf exchanged some more words, before Gandalf declared "Your staff is broken, Saruman!" and, sure enough, Saruman's ornate white staff snapped in two. They rode away, leaving Saruman locked in his tower, surrounded by Ents who still very much wanted a word with him. When they got to the camp, the other Rohirrim were agog to hear about their new hero's cursing-out of Saruman. One of their _scops _began working the Rohirric parts into a poem, to be called "The _Flyting_ of Saruman." A Dunlendish-speaker who had been along helped out with the parts that had been in that language, which few Rohirrim spoke.

Pippin gathered, from the Westron-speaking Rohirrim he asked, that part of Grima's glory had been in that Saruman had been so shocked and surprised that he hadn't said a word to defend himself. In a true _flyting_, the attacked party was expected to give just as good as he got.

OOO

The army of Rohan, including two hobbits who had gotten swept up in the confusion, was massing for an attack on the forces of Mordor which were besieging Minas Tirith. Merry was riding with a strange Rohir called Dernhelm, a youthful-looking sort with a haunted look around the eyes. He thought he recognized that look. He had seen it before.

Grima had the same look in his eyes. By now, his old names of "Wormtongue" and "Foes'-Bane" were forgotten. Everybody in the royal army called him "Death-seeker." Again and again, he had plunged straight into the thickest fighting, wreaking incredible slaughter while somehow avoiding even minor injuries. Some of the canny old warriors shook their heads at his behavior.

"He wants to die,"one of them said around a fire one evening, after carefully checking to make sure that Grima was nowhere nearby. None of them wanted to offend Grima, and hearing himself discussed so frankly might offend him. "He wants to die, but he doesn't want to just kill himself. So he charges in to try to make the enemy kill him. His problem is, he is no good at dying. But he turns out to be incredibly good at killing. So again and again, he survives, and by now, he's one of Rohan's greatest heroes."

Theoden's comment was "With a thousand more like him, I'd march straight on Barad-Dur, and I think I could take it!"

Gandalf shook his head, puffing on his pipe. "Never say such things, Theoden King! Your poor Grima is in a worse hell of torment than any Sauron could devise, and it's all in his own mind. I could kick Saruman for using him so callously!"

"I know," Theoden shook his head sadly. "If he could only forgive himself, I think he'd be much happier. But he won't. He feels he failed me, failed all of Rohan, and that the only amends he can offer is his own death. Were it not forbidden to us, I would not be surprised to hear that he had ended his own life."

"He's trying to do just that, but by enemy swords. And I think he wants revenge," Gandalf commented.

"To my people, the words 'enough revenge' or 'too much revenge' are contradictions in terms. I almost pity the enemies that get in his way," was Theoden's answer. He leaned back. "Emphasis on _almost_!"

OOO

Theoden King of Rohan was down, but it had taken a Nazgul in full battle array, riding one of their fell flying beasts, to do it. The undead fiend was gloating over his triumph, little heeding the riders that spurred toward him.

Dernhelm, with Merry, was quick…but there was one who was faster. His spurs bloody, Grima son of Gamlod charged straight at the Nazgul, screaming a Rohirric war cry at the top of his lungs. Before the Nazgul could react, Grima was on him, his sword flashing, dripping already with orcish gore. The beast had just enough time to let out a startled scream as its head flew off its neck in a fountain of black blood.

The Nazgul roared with rage as it leaped from its saddle, bestriding the King. "_Thou?_ Thou wouldst challenge _me_, puny Man? Who art thou, to challenge me?"

"GRIMAAAA!" screamed Grima. "I am Grima, and they call me the Death-seeker! They say you're Death, do they? Let's find out who is Death on this field today!" He slashed viciously at the Nazgul, striking him on the chest. The blow would have cleaved any mortal warrior open, but Grima's sword dissolved as it struck the undead king. The Nazgul threw back its head and laughed, a horrible sound.

"So, thou wouldst contest with me? Thou shalt find out, along with thy King, that I am Death! No living man may slay me!" He grabbed Grima by the front of his mail shirt and brought him close, stabbing him through the mail with his other hand. Grima became even paler, and went limp. Then the Nazgul threw him aside, only to find Dernhelm standing protectively over the body of the King.

"Didst thou not hear me, fool? No living man may slay me!" At this, Dernhelm threw his-_her?-_helm, to reveal the delicate features of Eowyn daughter of Theoden.

"But I am a woman! I am Eowyn, and you stand between me and my lord! So stand aside, if you are not deathless! For living or foul undead, I will strike you if you hurt him!"

Both of them had forgotten Grima, intent on each other. Behind the Nazgul, Grima staggered to his feet, only his indomitable will keeping him from collapsing. His face was a mask of agony, but he watched the Nazgul and Eowyn readying for combat, and he gathered himself, leaping on the Nazgul's back and wrenching his head. A loud, horrible snapping noise echoed across the suddenly-silent battlefield; everybody had stopped what they were doing to watch this epic clash.

The Nazgul's head seemed to hang askew and his crown dropped away, but he was by no means out of the fight. Furious, he grabbed behind himself, clutching at Grima, who held on like a limpet, both of them snarling their hatred. That gave Eowyn, and Merry, a free opening, and they were not slow to take it. Eowyn's blade stabbed into the Nazgul, piercing his heart, and Merry's Westernesse-made knife stabbed behind his knee. With a groan, the Nazgul collapsed, his mail crumpling as a black cloud of smoke rose out of it, to be blown into nothingness by the West wind.

With a cry of distress, Eowyn ran to Grima. He was clearly dying, but whatever madness had possessed him seemed to have left him. He gave her a surprisingly sweet smile, and she smiled back, although tears were already beginning to blind her.

"All I did…I did for you. I did love you, Eowyn. That was how Saruman first snagged me." He gave a rattling cough, bringing up blood and other liquids. "At last…at last I think I've paid in full. I think that the debt is done."

"No! Grima, you _can't die_! You _can't_!" Eowyn sobbed, yanking at his torn cloak to try to staunch his bleeding. "I command you to _live_!"

"I did live," Grima whispered. "The Princess of Rohan…must not fall…because Grima failed in his duty to his King!" He slumped, and the life visibly left him. Eowyn and Merry looked at each other, despair in their faces, before both slumping to the ground, victims of the Black Breath.

When the dead of Rohan were gathered to be put in barrows, Grima's place was beside his King. Nobody disputed that for a second. And later on, in Minas Tirith, there was a statue of him, with the words:

_Grima son of Gamlod_

_Sometime counselor to Theoden of Rohan_

_Sought and found death_

_His debt is paid_.

And in Rohan, ever after, warriors told tales of the Deathseeker, and particularly brave Rohirrim would blush modestly if told that they were "a second Grima," or "worthy to ride beside Grima."

END

_(Author's note: I always felt really sorry for Grima, and thought that this was a possiblity that Tolkien could have explored in the original. May his ghost forgive me for what I have done.)_


End file.
